


I gotta learn to be a wiser fool

by noelia_g



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Pacific Rim AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-20
Updated: 2013-07-20
Packaged: 2017-12-20 19:36:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/891051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noelia_g/pseuds/noelia_g
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first attempt at drifting together was a disaster (much as both expected it to be). The second was under the pressure of a triple Kaiju event and no one expected much of it, least of all Enjolras. And yet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I gotta learn to be a wiser fool

**Author's Note:**

> This is a snippet of a Pacific Rim AU I needed to get out of my system. There could be more in the verse. There could not be. I never know, with them.

Grantaire is out of the link and out of Patria so fast Enjolras doesn’t even have time to blink, less alone say anything. He calls out after him, but Grantaire either is already too far away to hear, or he’s pointedly ignoring him.

It takes Enjolras a while to hunt him down; he’s immediately intercepted first by Valjean, who berates him for taking unnecessary risks and then smiles and offers his congratulations on a job well done; then by Javert, who only does the former, and finally by Courfeyrac, who is giddy at the prospect of a new specimen to study and wants Enjolras’ input on the Kaiju’s physiology. 

He’s not impressed by Enjolras’ snappish “it died when we ripped off its head” at all. 

He doesn’t even need to think where he’s heading before his feet lead him to Grantaire’s door; Courfeyrac abandoned somewhere behind. Combeferre finds him there ten minutes later, seating on the metal steps leading to the bunk.

“So, it couldn’t have been _that_ bad,” Combeferre says, leaning against the wall and crossing his arms, his right still moving a little too tentatively, even though the cast is gone. He looks concerned, which has been his default look for the past few weeks, at least one he has for Enjolras. “You’ve entered the drift together faster than anyone I’ve seen.”

“Faster than us?” Enjolras asks, smiling slightly.

“By one point seven second, but yes.”

Enjolras nods in acknowledgment, still smiling, but he lets it fade away soon, leaning back, his head hitting the door with a light thuf. “It wasn’t that bad,” he offers.

It was the opposite of bad, he wants to say. It was like nothing he experienced before, not thought the link, not otherwise. The moment they initiated the link he got lost like he hasn’t in years, since he was a reckless rookie who chased the rabbit down the worst hole, but the thing is, he wasn’t getting lost in his own memories, he was getting lost in _Grantaire_ and it was terrifying and it was _wonderful._

He had no idea.

That was the single thought resonating in him, thrashing around in his skull and pulsing in his veins, he had no fucking idea. He got it all so wrong, got _Grantaire_ so wrong (except in the places where he didn’t, in the rarely glimpsed passions and promise and potential, so much of it, overwhelming like the ocean, like waves all around, pulling him under). 

“So why is he avoiding you?” Combeferre asks pleasantly, and the ‘this time’ is clearly implied in his tone.

“You know how we’ve heard for years that drifting was the most difficult part of piloting a Jaeger? And then we got in and it was so incredibly easy?”

“In their defense, I’ve known you since you were four, there was not going to be anything to surprise me.”

“I believe you’ve called me shallow somewhere in there,” Enjolras tells him. “I’m offended.”

“You’re nothing of the sort,” Combeferre snorts and doesn’t clarify which of the two he’s referring to. “And with Grantaire?” he prompts.

Now, that’s the question. “Still easy. Far from simple,” he mutters.

“I believe you should watch out who you’re calling simple.”

Enjolras feels his lips twitch with a smile he can’t quite hold back, even as he’s shaking his head. “I’ve piloted with other people before. I never...” he bites the words off. They wouldn’t suffice. He cannot put into words what happened, and he definitely cannot tell Combeferre.

Combeferre, who’s watching him concern and kindness, who knows everything about him and always has, who he trusts more than he trusts himself, sometimes.

Enjolras still doesn’t have words for him now, not ones to explain how it feels now out of the link; like he’s missing a limb and it throbs with phantom pain and honestly, he needs to talk to Grantaire about it, because this is ridiculous and _why is he hiding?_

“He might not even be there,” Combeferre offers, glancing at the door. “He could be at Eponine’s, or in...”

“Oh, he’s there,” Enjolras says and bangs his fist against the door. “And eavesdropping.”

He’s not _entirely_ sure about that, not enough to bet, really, but after a few long seconds there’s an answering thud on the other side.

“I’m not. You’re loud and the wall is thin.”

“It’s reinforced steel, you asshole,” Enjolras mutters and stands up, wiping his hands on his pants. “There are two ways this can go right now: either you let me in and talk to me, or I’ll simply wait until you have to leave. You have to eat sometime.”

“So do you,” Grantaire points out sullenly.

“Quite so,” Enjolras agrees pleasantly. “I can have someone bring me the food here, though. So could you, but you’d have to open the doors to them and oh, wait.”

He waits through a full minute of stubborn silence and then Grantaire opens the doors. “You are a fucking asshole and I hate you.”

“As you say,” Enjolras nods and steps inside. He nods at Combeferre and shuts the door behind him.

“If none of you makes it out by the morning, I’m sending someone to collect your corpses and _then_ I am claiming your room, Enjolras,” Combeferre calls at them before whistling as he heads down the corridor, leaving them to the awkward silence. 

Grantaire takes a step back, as far as he can go in the limited space of the bunk, crossing his arms over his chest defensively. “We really don’t need to talk about it,” he says. “You’ve seen everything, can we just drop it? Combeferre will be battle ready soon, everything can get back to normal.”

That stops Enjolras cold, the suggestion more than unexpected; it’s unfathomable, now. He’s clearly missing something vital here, and he hates that feeling.

“Alright, first, you are mad if you think Valjean will separate us now. You were there with me, so I’m pretty sure you’ve seen what we did.”

“That’s the point, Apollo, I have always been mad, I just got really good at hiding it.”

There is an edge of raw honesty in Grantaire’s voice that angers Enjolras and he wants to lash out at it more than anything, but he can’t, not with a chance that he’ll injure Grantaire in the process.

More than he has ever before.

“Second,” he continues through gritted teeth, “do you honestly can’t stand me that much?”

Grantaire stares at him, jaw slack with surprise. Enjolras waits for him to speak, cold coiling in his stomach; getting colder by every second of the silence.

“You’ve been in my head, Enjolras. You cannot be oblivious now,” Grantaire says finally, his words heavy, falling like lead. He drops his arms to his sides, hands balled into fists. “You must know now.”

He does. He did, before, too, to an extent. He’s had pieces and fragments and yet haven’t even begun to make out the whole picture. 

“You can love me,” Enjolras says, and his voice shakes over the world but he still gets it out, because choosing a lesser one, an easier one, a safer one, would be doing Grantaire a disservice, “and still not want to have anything to do with me. I’ve heard it told that it’s rarely within our power to choose who we’re attracted to,” he sighs. “And we both know that you look at me to find faults in me. You pick me apart to point them out to me.”

“Is that what you think? I’ve spent years trying to find a flaw in you. And I don’t mean that you are perfect, because you are far from that...”

“Thank you.”

“But I am yet to stumble upon something that doesn’t make me want you more. And that’s still true, after I’ve had a chance to poke around your mind. And you’ve seen mine, you’ve seen _everything_ , and you know how patently unfair that is? You’ve always found me lacking, but to have you know that for sure, to see it for yourself...” he laughs and it’s bitter and hollow and then it’s cut off sharply, because Enjolras couldn’t stand it anymore, had to make it _stop_ , make Grantaire _see_ , and he’s crossed the room in two strides, fingers finding Grantaire’s hands and holding on for dear life.

Their faces are close enough he feels the sharp intake of Grantaire’s breath on his skin, and he could lean in for a kiss, is sorely tempted to, but he needs to chase the words down first, those poor scattered creatures, and make them do his bidding.

And they need to line up for him, they need to be _right_ , because he’s pretty sure this is the one chance he’s getting. 

“I have been in your mind,” he says quietly, “and I’m the only one whom I found lacking.”

Grantaire looks surprised for a second before his expression turns doubtful again, mouth pulled up in a sardonic smile. “You jest,” he offers flatly.

Enjolras is good with words, always has been; until he was chosen as a Jaeger pilot they have been his greatest skill and strongest weapon. They rarely, if ever, fail him, except when faced with Grantaire, then they turn into traitors, become too sharp and cutting, surge forth before he has any time to think, stumble and fall carelessly. 

It’s been like this forever, and he really should have known.

He looks down, at their still connected hands, and tightens his grip, thumbs over Grantaire’s pulse points. Grantaire breathes in sharply and drops his gaze as well. 

“They warn us not to get lost in our own memories, in our minds,” Enjolras offers, his voice low, almost a whisper, “I’ve never understood that, never had the urge. But I could have gotten lost in yours. I _wanted_ to get lost in yours.”

At that, Grantaire does look up at him, something new in his gaze, something wonderful, even though it’s still drowning in doubt. “You don’t mean that.”

Enjolras could show him how much he means it, could crawl into his space and kiss him, stumble towards the uncomfortable bed and _show him_ , but he forces himself to stand still just a moment longer, nothing more yet than the touch of their hands.

“You’ve catalogued all my flaws, haven’t you? So tell me, have I ever lied?”

“I don’t fact check _all_ our conversations,” Grantaire mutters.

“Could have fooled me,” Enjolras shoots back easily, the rhythm intimately familiar. He squeezes Grantaire’s hands and feels him tighten his grip in return. “So?”

Grantaire sighs at him. “No. If anything, you can be all too honest.”

“I have been too harsh, at times,” Enjolras admits freely. “To you, especially. You insist on being infinitely frustrating,” he points out and Grantaire smiles at that, a little.

“It’s my life’s ambition.”

“Good job,” Enjolras tells him before he bows his head. He’s not sure where he wants to look now, at Grantaire’s face, with his mouth slightly open as his breathing continues to be uneven and his eyes bright with expectations, or at their hands; Grantaire’s fingers slowly lacing with his. “You take such great care to doubt, to care about nothing. You’ve had me fooled,” he says, and it comes out accusatory, which isn’t actually wrong.

He feels robbed of the years he could have known Grantaire, really known him. 

He gives in finally and leans in, placing a small kiss on Grantaire’s forehead. It’s not even a shred of what he wants to do, but it makes Grantaire shudder and causes warmth to spread in Enjolras’ chest, the expanding feeling pressing at his ribcage. 

“Do you regret it?” he asks Grantaire. “The drift. Would you prefer if...”

“No,” Grantaire shakes his head. “I never wanted you to see, but now you have and... you’re getting it wrong, Enjolras. Somehow, you’ve gotten it all wrong. You need to stop looking at me like this,” he adds.

“Like what?”

“Like I’ve wanted you to look at me for years,” Grantaire says, words out too fast and he looks angry at himself for saying them, and dejected as he realises there’s really no point in hiding it now, not after the neural handshake. 

Enjolras entertains the idea of hauling Grantaire back to Patria, of waking Joly up and having him initiate the drift again, because it would be so much easier if Grantaire could just _see_. 

“Sorry, I don’t think I can stop,” he mutters and kisses him, their hands trapped between them, his lips on Grantaire’s, finally. Grantaire makes a noise in the back of his throat and yields immediately, easily, giving everything back.

He’s still shaking his head when he pulls away, despite the way they just fit perfectly together. “I’m going to fuck up, Enjolras. This, and everything else. I’m going to.”

“I know,” Enjolras says easily, because he’s seen that too and he won’t pretend he hadn’t. Grantaire looks at him incredulously, clearly unprepared for the quick agreement. “It’s alright.”

“What the fuck are you on, Enjolras? You hate me for my screw-ups.”

“I hated that you didn’t seem to care,” he corrects. “I hated that you seemed to accept the worst so readily, that you expected it. I hated that you’d have nothing but scorn for our efforts to change. I hated that you wouldn’t believe in anything.”

“Except you,” Grantaire points out.

“We both know this isn’t quite true. I am the only thing you might have _admitted_ to believing in, but not the only one you have. And for the record, you’ve chosen abysmally,” he says ruefully. “I’m going to fuck up, Grantaire,” he offers, turning the words back at him. “So will you. The thing is, we’ll put it back together.”

Grantaire looks at him for a very long moment, studying him closely. Enjolras lets him look for whatever he needs to find. “You’ll have a hard time convincing me of that,” he says finally, but he’s vaguely smiling. It’s just a curl to his lips but it reaches his eyes all the same, and that’s a prize Enjolras will cherish.

“That’s fine,” he says and means it, because he endeavors to do just that. He might not succeed, but they have time for him to try and try again. 

He moves to place his hands on the sides of Grantaire’s face and kiss him again. And this time, Grantaire doesn’t pull away.

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi on tumblr: realitycheckbounced. Let's all spiral into madness over dead french revolutionaries together.


End file.
